In High School, I was in creative writing, Judy. I wrote this poem about my father dying. My father wasn't dead, but I was angry and creative. So I read it, a girl cried, I had to lie about my dad. I walked out of class feeling like a sociopath. The whole year, she would look at me sympathetically, and I avoided her gaze.
Of course at PT conferences it came out that my father was not dead, only in New Jersey.
I always say and write too much.